


Squishy Bits

by RicochetRomance



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body Confidence, Chubby Kink, Chubby Megatron, Drabbles, Fat Robots, Ficlet Collection, I'm Not Ashamed, M/M, Pining Optimus, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-15 13:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13613934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicochetRomance/pseuds/RicochetRomance
Summary: The author has a kink. The author is projecting that kink onto her favorite fandom.Please be advised that this is Transformers weight gain fanfiction - if that doesn't sound like your thing, it probably isn't.





	1. Chair (Part 1/3)

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this kink since middle school. I'm now a graduate student. So, I finally decided to try writing for it - and who better to test it on than my favorite mechs? It seems there's a niche for this sort of thing in the TF fandom, so I've got my fingers crossed.
> 
> This is going to be a series of unrelated multi-part drabbles featuring my new obsession - chubby Megatron.

(I'm Going to Hit You With a) Chair AU 

TF G1 AU - Part 1/3

\---

Megatron's penchant for sweets was no secret. The tyrant knew it. His Decepticons knew it. And, thanks to a certain saboteur, the Autobots knew it too.

Privately, Megatron was well aware that his sweet tooth was quite likely to be his downfall. It didn't behoove a leader to have such a glaring weakness. However, no amount of willpower, abstinence, or even processor modification could curb his desire for sweets. 

There was a plate of Energon-chip cookies on the table in the officers' mess that morning - a rare treat in times of war, and an even rarer treat on a miserable, backwater, Energon-poor planet like Earth. 

Nomech had dared to touch them. Save, of course, for a certain seeker.

"Starscream," Megatron barked. "What do you think you're doing?"

He'd just arrived in the mess, and was not amused by the sight before his optics - a traitorous jet, caught in the act of consuming delicious sweets.  
"What does it look like I'm doing, Mighty Megatron?" The seeker smirked, raising a cookie to his intake. 

Megatron seized the seeker's wrist, prying the treat from his fingers. "Consuming fuel of unknown origin." The tyrant retorted. Fuel that could potentially be tainted or poisonous. Fuel that rightfully belonged to him.

"Unknown? Surely you jest." Starscream chuckled, though his wings twitched with uncertainty. "Only you would waste precious Energon on making sweets during times of war." 

Technically, Starscream had a point. This wouldn't have been the first time that Megatron had squandered resources to satisfy his cravings. However, these cookies weren't his own creation.

Megatron said as much, to which Starscream scoffed. "Then who exactly made them? The Autobots?" 

"Of course, Starscream." Megatron retorted, his tone sarcastic. "These sweets are an Autobot trap, designed to destroy us all." Rolling his optics, the tyrant took the plate from the table and left the room.

The very idea was preposterous. The Autobots had no resources to spare on such frivolity - therefore, there was no way in Pit that these cookies could be a trap.

Or at least, that's the excuse that Megatron gave himself when he realized that he'd eaten a third of the plate on his walk back to the command deck. 

-

It seemed that the plate of cookies was merely the beginning. Decadent Energon sweets of all types began to appear around the Nemesis on an ornly basis. 

The rational portion of Megatron's processor suggested that caution and suspicion were in order, particularly when none of his officers claimed to have any knowledge of the situation.

The baser portion of his processor argued that the origin of the treats didn't matter, and that they should be consumed immediately to satisfy his sweet tooth. 

It was his base instincts that won out, after a series of tests by Shockwave indicated that there were no contaminants or poisons present in any of the sweets - a belated but necessary precaution. 

Megatron scrolled through a datapad of invoices, tallying supply surpluses and deficits in the back of his processor. The only other mech he would have trusted with such work was Soundwave, and the tape deck was busy enough as it was.

The tyrant's free servo reached over to the plate at his side, which mere breems ago had been piled high with Energon muffins. His servo came up empty, drawing his attention away from the datapad.

Rather than embarrassment at having mindlessly gorged himself, Megatron merely felt something akin to regret. Those muffins had been delectable, and, as impossible as it may have seemed, his processor craved more.

(Never mind the fact that his tanks were full to bursting.) 

The tyrant's melancholy was interrupted mere moments later by the entrance of Skywarp. The seeker popped into existence inches away from Megatron's desk, and deposited a plateful of Energon jellies. "Found these on the flight deck." The jet said by way of explanation. 

Before Megatron could express irritation at the seeker having entered his personal quarters without permission, Skywarp was gone. 

"Teleporters," Megatron grumbled, taking a jelly from the plate. This wasn't particularly uncommon. Treats would be discovered at random in all corners of the Nemesis, and his troops were under orders to bring them directly to their lord.

With the exception of Starscream, his troops could be relied upon to obey - they knew better than to stand between the tyrant and his sweets.

The jelly was delicious - incredibly sweet and perfectly textured, the centre soft and oozing. Humming with approval, Megatron returned his attention to the datapad, and the task at hand. 

(And promptly resumed his mindless snacking.)


	2. Chair (Part 2/3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your incredibly positive and encouraging feedback! I'll try my best not to disappoint you with subsequent installments of this fic!

(I'm Going to Hit You With a) Chair AU

TF G1 AU - Part 2/3

\---

Megatron hadn't had access to such a constant and varied supply of treats since long before the war. It was absolute bliss for his sweet tooth, and the tyrant indulged himself shamelessly.

Megatron was vaguely aware that this prolonged surplus of Energon was having an impact on his frame. However, between the constant stresses of command and warfare, such trivial changes weren't worth considering.

Or rather, he had assumed that they were trivial.

This past decaorn had been particularly busy, and as such, Megatron hadn't made even a single appearance on the command deck. Between repairs to the hull of the Nemesis, a planned conflict with Autobot forces, two unplanned conflicts with the human military, and a short stint in the medbay, his absence wasn't exactly surprising.

In the tyrant's opinion, it had been a rather refreshing change of pace. However, he was needed there today. His officers were due for a strategy briefing, and he knew full well that if he were to simply send the information to their comms, it would be resolutely ignored. 

Swaggering into the room, Megatron couldn't help but smirk. A small smirk, but a smug one nonetheless. All optics were on him, as they Pit well should be. It seemed that his presence was as commanding as ever.

Settling heavily into his throne of command, the tyrant addressed his assembled officers.

"The plan of attack versus the Autobot forces at the hydroelectric power plant has been advanced by three orns." The statement was made without preamble or explanation - there was no need to waste time.

After all, the announcement was a decoy. There was almost certainly a spy in the vents, and Soundwave was already transmitting the correct information via the officers' internal comm network. As a matter of fact, it had been advanced by four orns, three cycles, and half a breem.

Megatron continued to speak, falsifying details of ambush formations and offensive strategies that would serve to ensure that the announcement was sufficiently convincing. 

As he spoke, however, he could feel the arms of the throne digging into his sides. Somehow, it felt as though his seat of power was far smaller than it had been mere orns ago. Nonsense, the tyrant chided himself. Reinforced titanium didn't simply shrink, and the Constructicons were far too concerned with their self-preservation to even consider pulling such a juvenile stunt.

Announcement completed, Megatron made to rise from his throne, intending to dismiss his troops. Only to discover that he couldn't. His aft was wedged tightly into the confines of the narrow seat, and the blocky armrests cut deeply into his sides. Nothing short of a severe struggle would serve to budge him, never mind to free him.

Starscream, of course, noticed. "Is something wrong, Mighty Megatron?" The seeker's honeyed tone dripped with abject mockery.

"Only your incessant coddling," the tyrant retorted. Laughter spread through the assembled mechs at the expense of the miffed seeker, whose faceplates flushed lightly with embarrassment. Megatron was well versed in the use of basic diversionary tactics, thank you very much.

"You're dismissed." Megatron gave the order, watching as his officers filed out at a pace too rapid to be genuinely respectful. "As are you."

Megatron addressed Soundwave with this last statement, knowing that his most loyal commander hadn't even considered leaving his side. Acknowledgement flickered across the silent mech's visor, and it occurred to Megatron that, given his telepathic abilities, Soundwave already knew every last detail of his situation.

At very least the tyrant would be spared the humiliation of an audience.

Having cleared the room of inquisitive mechs, Megatron set about extricating himself from his seat of power. It was a remarkable struggle that required every last bit of his immense strength, leaving the mech panting with exertion and the metal of his throne deformed beyond repair.

Thus freed, Megatron took a moment to properly examine his frame for the first time in several decaorns. Deep indentations were scored into his sides from where the arms of the throne had confined him - sides that he was certain had never before in his function been remotely this soft.

The tyrant had always known that his sweet tooth would be his downfall. Pit, better for such an indignity occur in the safety of the Nemesis than on the battlefield.

This had been deliberate, Megatron realized, an exploitation of his weakness. The words that he had spoken so flippantly on that first orn came back to him in an instant - this had, in fact, been an Autobot trap.

"Prime." The tyrant growled darkly.

Somemech was about to die.


	3. Chair (Part 3/3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick content warning on this part for a dubiously consensual kink. 
> 
> I'm really not sure - is that sort of thing acceptable, or would you prefer that future installments of this series be less problematic?

(I'm Going to Hit You With a) Chair AU

TF G1 AU - Part 3/3

\---

Optics burning brightly with rage, Megatron opened a comm channel directly to the Ark's mainframe. "Get me the Prime," he barked impatiently.

A startled mech blinked back at him in silence for a long, awkward moment, before abruptly leaving to do as he was told. Was that the paranoid one, or the one with the forcefields?

In the moment that Megatron was mulling over this utterly insignificant question, Optimus Prime entered the viewing screen.

To say that Optimus was surprised by this development was putting it mildly. A direct comm from Megatron, over a public channel. The tyrant was either delivering a message of great importance, or was too aggravated to bother with the use of encryptions and proxies. The look on his faceplates suggested both. 

Speaking of faceplates, Optimus couldn't help but notice that the tyrant's angular cheeks were now exceedingly plump, filling out the spaces within his helmet. There was also a subtle but unmistakable hint of a second chin forming along his formerly squared jawline.

Continuing to appraise Megatron's frame, Optimus knew full well that he was staring, but simply couldn't help himself. The tyrant's chestplate curved softly forward, distorting the Decepticon insignia as it settled comfortably atop the heavy swell of his chassis. A broad, round, and truly massive chassis, the size of which was even further emphasized by the rolls of fat that had formed along the tyrant's thick sides.

In short, Megatron was huge.

"You've gained weight," Optimus observed bluntly, feigning surprise. Well, in a sense he truly was surprised - by the sheer extent of it all.

"I'm aware," Megatron retorted dryly. "Which one of your glitched Bots is responsible for this stunt?"

"My Autobots are far from glitched," Optimus replied indignantly. "And the idea was entirely mine. I dare say it suits you."

Megatron growled with frustration. Must everything always be the fault of that infuriating Prime? His servos twitched with the desire to mutilate the mech before him, and he resisted the urge to ram his fist through his own side of the viewing screen. Though satisfying, it would accomplish nothing.

Said infuriating Prime was still staring openly, and it was then that Megatron made a disturbing realization. All of their recent confrontations had been blatantly physical, characterized by far more wrestling and groping than was strictly necessary. In that context, along with his earlier comment -

"You're a pervert, Prime." The tyrant snapped.

"And you are a glutton." Optimus countered smoothly. He found that he couldn't help the next question that escaped his lipplates. "How much have you been eating?"

"Every last bite," Megatron smirked pridefully. His army respected him, feared him, obeyed his every command. There wasn't a scrap of sweet fuel that they hadn't surrendered.

Optimus gaped at the tyrant with incredulous optics. How was that even physically possible? He had only been sending such excessive amounts of fuel because he'd been certain that the other Decepticons would misappropriate most of it. Well, he supposed that it explained his adversary's truly massive size.

Megatron took a moment to savour the Prime's shock. "As commanders go, you are a fool." The tyrant observed. "Squandering fuel, providing it to your enemy to fulfil your own twisted desires - to weaken and demean me."

Optimus physically recoiled at those words. "That wasn't -" he began.

"Know that you have failed." Megatron's tone was arrogant in the extreme. "I remain as powerful as ever. My frame is not, and will never be, a source of shame."

"That wasn't my intent!" Optimus interjected, finally able to finish his sentence.

"Autobot lies," the tyrant scoffed. "You will answer for your actions on the battlefield." With that, he abruptly cut the connection.

Staring absently at the blank screen, Megatron caught himself wondering whether, given that the Prime's plan had failed miserably, the supply of delectable treats would stop. His sweet tooth sincerely hoped not. 

On the opposite side of the severed connection, Optimus noted with satisfaction that the tyrant had been considerably less volatile than usual. Everything was proceeding according to plan.

Phase One was complete - a softer frame. If Perceptor's research was correct, this would alter the tyrant’s processor chemistry and lead naturally into Phase Two - a softer attitude.

A softer attitude, the potential for peace, and perhaps even the potential for something more... intimate. Pit, Megatron looked absolutely gorgeous like this. Optimus paused for a moment, attempting to delete all traces of that blatantly treasonous thought from his processor. However, he could already feel a vibrant flush beginning to rise to his concealed faceplates. 

It seemed that the Prime's adversary had a point - he was, in fact, a pervert.


	4. Touch (Part 1/1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different - a one-shot set in the Prime continuity. A bit more kink-oriented, and featuring some setting-appropriate angst.

Touch Me, Touch Me (Don’t Be Shy) AU

TF Prime Post-War AU  

\---

In the aftermath of the Cybertronian civil war, many things had changed, but many more had remained the same. The feelings that Optimus Prime and Megatron held for one-another had not changed, the two mechs still pining hopelessly on an intimate and romantic level. However, without the overwhelming pressures of command and opposing factions of warfare, the two mechs were finally able to admit to those feelings.

As their relationship developed, Optimus had realized exactly how great of an impact the use of Dark Energon had had on the tyrant’s processor – and had discovered to his horror that the tyrant was still actively using it.

It rendered Megatron aggressive, delusional, and prone to excessively violent behavior. So, the Prime had issued an ultimatum. If the tyrant truly desired to become his conjunx eterna, he must immediately stop imbibing the dangerous substance. Determined to “take the Prime as his own,” Megatron had complied in a sparkbeat.

However, the complete cessation of the Dark Energon had prompted withdrawal symptoms that no medic on Cybertron was properly equipped to handle. Existence without the constant influence of Unicron had seemingly left a void in Megatron’s consciousness – a void that the tyrant had become determined to fill with frankly obscene amounts of fuel.  

Some orns, Optimus caught himself wondering exactly how much of that aggressive, delusional, and violent behavior could actually be attributed to the Dark Energon. The simple fact of the matter was that, with regard to the tyrant’s stability, not much had changed. He was still insufferably demanding, crass as all Pit, and about as thick-helmed as the broadside of the Nemesis.

Take the present situation, for instance.

Megatron was glaring daggers at the back of the Prime’s helm, grumbling profanity between bites of blueberry muffin. This continued for several minutes, over the course of two and a half muffins. “How fragging long,” the tyrant demanded at last, “does it take to boil a pot of pasta?”

Optimus rolled his optics. “Roughly a breem,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact. It was what it was, and there was no way in Pit that he could make it happen any faster.

Megatron was ridiculously impatient when it came to fuel. Never mind the fact that he was actively “snacking” on muffins that were easily double the size of his clenched fist – he wanted the pasta, and he wanted it right the frag now. Unsurprisingly, the tyrant remained oblivious to the irony of the situation.

It should have been intolerable, but the Prime found himself more than willing to put up and shut up, as the human phrase went. After all, the single most enjoyable part of cooking for Megatron was the subsequent spectacle of the tyrant promptly devouring every last mouthful of that fuel. His conjunx would absolutely stuff himself, never leaving even a single scrap unfinished, and it was hot as all Pit.

As such, Optimus amused himself by seeing just how massive he could make each meal, constantly challenging his conjunx’s appetite. However, no amount of amusement could change the simple fact that he dreaded the orn when Megatron finally caught on, finally realized exactly what the Prime was doing to him - which is to say, enabling the tyrant to unknowingly gain massive amounts of weight.

Needless to say, said tyrant was at present still completely oblivious.

When the pasta was finally boiled to perfection, Optimus drained the pot, and then unceremoniously upended it onto a serving platter. It was the only dish in their quarters remotely suitable for the massive meals that his conjunx routinely consumed.

Smothering the spaghetti with tomato sauce and a ridiculous amount of shredded cheese, Optimus presented the dish to the tyrant with the smallest of smirks on his lipplates.

“Finally,” Megatron grumbled, stuffing the last bite of his third muffin into his intake before roughly seizing the platter.

Snagging himself a simple cube of Energon, Optimus settled in to watch this evening’s spectacle. He was not disappointed. Seating himself in a chair that could barely contain his bulk, the tyrant immediately dug his claws into the pasta. He didn’t believe in such disgustingly human inventions as utensils, and the Prime privately enjoyed watching Megatron lick every last bit of sloppily-consumed fuel from his servos – particularly when it came to sauces.

As usual, the tyrant dug into the massive dish with downright alarming determination. Each mouthful was accompanied by obscene noises of pleasure as the mech unabashedly vocalized his approval of the dish. No matter how much or how frequently Megatron ate, he seemed never to tire of the rich flavors of human fuels.

Between bites, Optimus watched his conjunx lick the tomato sauce from his thin lipplates, his glossa flicking over those dangerously sharp dentae. The Prime made sure to carefully moderate his own fuelling, drinking steadily and focusing a remarkable amount of willpower on supressing his cooling fans. The last thing he wanted was for his conjunx to actually notice how much pleasure he derived from this unique spectacle.

All too soon, Megatron was sucking the last of the sauce from his clawtips, a contented smirk on his faceplates. Optimus, however, knew damn well that the tyrant wasn’t satisfied yet. Full, certainly, but not remotely satisfied.

The Prime’s suspicion was proved correct when the tyrant snagged the half-empty box of muffins from the countertop, apparently deciding that meals should both begin and end with dessert. He consumed these treats at a far more reasonable pace, and by the time the last bite had passed his lipplates, said pace was downright lackadaisical – the mech was blissfully full.

“Get me a cube,” the tyrant all but demanded, smirking smugly across the table at his conjunx and knowing full well that the Prime would comply.

“Only one?” Optimus teased, already heading towards the dispenser. How Megatron still had any appetite left for fuel was beyond him.

“Fair point, Prime.” The tyrant retorted, clearly amused. “Make it three.”

Optimus was immensely glad that his back was turned to his conjunx, so the tyrant couldn’t see his jaw quite literally drop. Three cubes was enough fuel to sustain a mech of Megatron’s size for an entire orn, and the Prime had already seen him consume at least four throughout the day – and that wasn’t even taking into account the absolute obscenity that had been breakfast.  

The Prime grit his dentae as he watched Megaton casually pour the cubes down his intake, fighting a desperate battle against his cooling fans. How the Pit could there possibly be that much room in any one mech’s tanks?  

Seemingly satisfied at last, the tyrant rose laboriously from the table, his chair groaning dangerously as his bulk shifted. Apparently, he didn’t have the energy to move particularly far, though. He settled heavily on the sofa in the adjacent recreation room, sprawling contentedly across two-thirds of the thing, with one huge servo idly rubbing the strained bulge of his chassis.

If anymech were to call Megatron lazy, it was likely that the remainder of their function would be both short and painful. However, as far as Optimus was concerned, there was no other word for it. A similar argument could also be made for the term “fat”.  

At this point, it defied all logic that the tyrant had still yet to realize how much weight he had gained – or, in fact, that he had gained any weight at all.

That his aft was frelling massive, spread beneath him as he sat like some sort of ridiculously luxurious cushion. That his always-curvaceous hips and thighs had more than doubled in girth, hence why he was perpetually clipping the edges of their furniture and perpetually complaining about how narrowly it was spaced.

That his waistline, once impossibly narrow, had swelled into a vast, soft orb that filled almost the entirety of his lap and impeded his movement every time the mech bent forward. That the majority of the bulk of his upper body was now comprised of impossibly self-indulgent fat rather than firm plating, despite having retained much of its shape.  

Megatron’s rapid, significant weight gain was impossibly arousing to the Prime, perhaps even more so than his voracious, uninhibited appetite. His servos twitched with the desire to touch his conjunx’s frame, to run his digits soothingly over the tyrant’s stuffed chassis and to subsequently explore every soft inch of the tyrant’s newfound curves.

However, there was no way in Pit he would allow himself to do so anytime soon.

“I will be using the shower,” Optimus informed his conjunx, already headed towards the washracks. Using the shower at the coldest temperature setting, for an inordinately long time.

“Nomech needs to be that clean.” Megatron grumbled back, rolling his optics. Frankly, it seemed to him that the Prime was obsessed – this would be his third shower of the orn.

Standing under the frigid water, watching it steam as it came into contact with his overheated plating, Optimus took a short moment to self-service, and a long moment to think. He was deeply conflicted as to the correct course of action.

He could choose to admit his desires to Megatron, drawing the tyrant’s attention to the impact that his behavior was having on his rapidly changing frame. However, this would potentially (quite likely) put an end to the Prime’s decidedly perverse enjoyment.

Or, he could continue to keep those desires to himself, serving as an enabler for his conjunx’s rampant gluttony and not venting a single word about his size. It would be amoral, to be sure, but the mech truly did seem to be enjoying himself.

Pit, Optimus wasn’t certain whether his own frame could even withstand the continued suppression of these desires. Their water bill certainly couldn’t. Not to mention the fact Megatron would inevitably grow even larger, would inevitably notice what had happened, and would inevitably realize what the Prime had done. What then?  

On the sofa in the recreation room, the tyrant smirked around a mouthful of chocolate-chip cookie. It seemed that his conjunx’s willpower was even greater than he’d initially assumed.

As enjoyable as it was to torment the ever-loving slag out of the mech, he’d rather the Prime not blow a fuse out of sheer frustration. Clearly, he would have to make even more of an effort to tempt his conjunx, demonstrating exactly how fragging gorgeous his massive frame could be - particularly when stuffed achingly full of that impossibly delicious cooking.

He’d give the stubborn mech a few more decaorns to admit the truth of his own accord. After that, he’d ensure that the Prime truly suffered. Nomech could deny the Lord of the Decepticons for long - not his worst enemy, not his conjunx eterna, not even the mech who had impossibly managed to become both.

He’d never intended for the Dark Energon to alter his function in such an invasive manner – but he wasn’t about to start complaining now. The Cybertronian civil war had finally ended, he had taken the Prime as his own, and he was now driving said Prime completely insane.

What the frag else was there to do?


	5. Bachelor (Part 1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IDW Optimus, in my opinion, is one of the least pleasant incarnations of the character. As such, this chapter has a content warning for minor fat shaming.
> 
> Note that the concept of a "Belt of the Protector" can be attributed to user Artemis_Dreamer.

The Death of a Bachelor AU

TF IDW Sass

\---

"For frag's sakes! Primus damn this heap of miserable slag to the Pit and back!"

At the sound of the frustrated blasphemy issuing from Megatron's vocalizer, the Prime turned towards him, fixing his Protector with a withering glare.

"Is there a problem?" He inquired, his tone falsely pleasant.

"Traditions are for fools." Megatron growled his response through gritted dentae.

Optimus rolled his optics. It had been no small feat to convince the tyrant to agree to this, an official ceremony instating the pair of them as Prime and Protector of all Cybertron. Through the ceremony, they would receive the blessings of Primus and Unicron on their leadership, ensuring that their reign would be at least marginally successful.

It was a tradition, certainly, but it was a meaningful one. Optimus had been under the impression that his Protector had finally gotten over this childish, petulant little snit - but apparently not.

However, there had been a peculiarity in the tyrant's tone. "Is there an actual problem?" Optimus persisted.

The response to his sarcastic inquiry was thrown directly at his helm, the Prime barely managing to catch it before it could collide painfully with his faceplates. The object in question was the Belt of the Protector, an ancient relic of Primus. It was by no means equivalent to the Matrix, but it was still possessed of considerable divine power.

"Fragging thing doesn't fit." Megatron growled, servos on his hips in a pose that none-too-subtly emphasized the heavy curve of his chassis.

It had fit last decaorn during the test run of the ceremony, Optimus knew that much. He eyed his Protector disapprovingly, attempting to discern the problem.

As it so happened, the problem was obvious. Megatron's sizeable girth had somehow managed to increase even further over the span of only a single decaorn.

The tyrant's waistline was ridiculously soft, devoid of anything resembling definition. Rolls of fat had settled at his broad hips, and the bulk of his massive chassis had begun to subtly overhang his thickened pelvic plating. This, of course, was to say nothing of the rest of his massive frame.

Optimus sighed with exasperation. Yes, Megatron definitely looked bigger - and if the Prime didn't know any better, he'd have said that the tyrant looked downright proud of it. The mech had truly never had a humble strut in his frame, and lacked the decency to even pretend to be ashamed of his size.

"I was under the impression that a leader was expected to wait until their reign had been well established before growing fat and complacent." Optimus commented scathingly.

"I'll give you fat, Prime," Megatron retorted, patting his heavy chassis with a firm servo. "But you can go and shove complacent up your aft. We both know that this is your damned fault."

"My fault that you lack anything resembling self-control?" Optimus demanded. The Prime did his level best not to raise his voice, not to lose his temper. He was to spend the rest of his function at Megatron's side, as stipulated in the treaty agreement. Their first argument as rulers of Cybertron probably shouldn't take place during their actual coronation.

Megatron resolutely ignored the Prime's words, choosing instead to go off on his own tangent. "If it wasn't for your love of inferior humans -"

"Humans are not inferior beings." Optimus interjected tartly.

"- then I wouldn't be stuck eating the fattening organic nonsense that you insist on cooking!" Fattening, and impossibly addictive - not that Megatron would ever have admitted to such a weakness.

Optimus sighed. He thoroughly enjoyed cooking, a fascinating human practice. He would repeat himself, but the proposition was clearly futile - it was in no way his fault that the tyrant insisted on stuffing himself to the point of absurdity at every meal.

Instead, the Prime stated the obvious. "The ceremony begins in less than a breem." He made an attempt to keep his tone level, but an edge of frantic anxiety stubbornly crept in. How exactly were they intended to overcome this untimely obstacle?

He asked as much, prompting Megatron to smirk. The tyrant reclaimed the belt with unnecessary force, wrenching it free from the Prime's servos. "Get me a metal cutter, a welding torch, and some chain link."

"You intend to alter it?!" Optimus exclaimed incredulously. This time, he did raise his voice. "The Belt of the Protector is a sacred artifact! To disfigure it would be to provoke the wrath of Primus!"

Megatron rolled his optics, paying the Prime's warning no heed. "Would you rather cancel the ceremony?" The tyrant retorted sarcastically.

Optimus knew full well that he had been defeated. Shoulders slumping with resignation, he immediately summoned an aide to fetch them the required materials - and quickly.

There was no way in Pit he was cancelling the ceremony now.


	6. Bachelor (Part 2/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same content warning as the previous chapter - minor fat shaming. 
> 
> The next installment will be considerably more positive.

The Death of a Bachelor AU

TF IDW Sass

\---

Megatron had made the alteration swiftly, and surprisingly painlessly. The Prime had half-expected a chorus of the divine to smite his Protector where he stood for so much as daring to violate the belt.

To the sound of an excessively loud fanfare, Megatron and Optimus strode down the aisle of a gladiatorial arena, the only venue that had been remotely large enough to seat all of the invited mechs and requisite dignitaries.

The tyrant walked ever so slightly faster than the Prime, stalking ahead with murderous intent in his optics and a grim set to his softened jawline.

Optimus couldn't help but repress a smirk. For all of those long millennia that Megatron had fought to control Cybertron, it had apparently never occurred to the tyrant that there were certain formalities expected of a ruler.

A NAIL had been chosen to officiate the ceremony, and the two mechs stood before him, before the hastily relocated Alter of Primus. The officiant began to speak, intoning the vows of leadership in a solemn and downright reverent tone.

"Do you, Optimus Prime, swear to act as a just and fair leader, to place the needs of all mechkind above any needs of your own, and to be willing to lay down your function in defense of the planet that you govern?"

"I, Optimus Prime -" The mech recited the phrase back almost by rote. For all that the ceremony had been his own brilliant idea, he honestly wasn't paying adequate attention to the proceedings. Instead, he was far too busy sneaking glances at the belt settled snugly around Megatron's ample waist.

Thankfully, the tyrant's shoddy attempt at welding was hidden from view by the bulky floor-length red cape draped over his broad shoulders - a cape that was a nearly identical counterpart to the Prime's own purple garment.

Optimus was privately glad of the way that the bulk of the cape minimized the bulk of Megatron's frame. Why had Primus seen fit to burden him with such an uncouth, obstinate, and downright embarrassing excuse for a Lord High Protector? Were his war crimes truly so severe as to justify this torture?

Maybe, Optimus mused, he could convince Megatron to continue to wear the cape after the conclusion of the ceremony. Preferably, to wear it all the fragging time. He was well aware that the tyrant was not an ostentatious mech, but perhaps he could appeal to Megatron's pride. Some nonsense about it being a garment suited only to the rightful ruler of Cybertron?

It was the Protector's turn to recite the vows of leadership, and he did so with the air of a resigned old mech being held at gunpoint. Seemingly satisfied, the NAIL then addressed them as a pair. "In the name of Primus and Unicron, I sanctify your leadership. You are now recognized as the rightful Prime and Protector of Cybertron."

At that moment, a crash of thunder resounded through the arena. The ominous storm clouds that had been gathering overhead abruptly burst open, acid rain sheeting down on the assembled mechs. It was usually possible to forecast acid storms several decaorns in advance, but it seemed that this one had not been remotely so predictable.

Everymech was practically trampling one-another in their haste to reach safe shelter. Even brief exposure to the acid could cause severe melting and burns to a mech's plating, and only a decontamination shower would suffice to end that suffering.

"The wrath of Primus has descended." Optimus snapped, his tone exasperated. "I did attempt to warn you." The Prime turned to glare at his Protector, but Megatron was no longer at his side.

The Prime therefore kept right on turning, finally catching sight of the tyrant standing nearly halfway across the arena. Of all places, Megatron had stationed himself at the buffet, holding a plate piled high with eclairs in one massive servo.

Of course, the rain didn't bother the tyrant in the slightest. Constructed in the distant past for the now obsolete task of deep core mining, Megatron's plating was nigh impenetrable. He could withstand a shrapnel grenade without so much as flinching, so it stood to reason that he could withstand a little rain.

Shielded from the rainstorm by the power of the Matrix, Optimus stalked across the arena towards his Protector, his stride quite nearly as aggravated as Megatron's had been earlier that cycle. As he closed the distance, the Prime realized that it wasn't a plate in the tyrant's servo - rather, it was the whole damn serving platter.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Optimus demanded, watching as Megatron scarfed down eclair after eclair with no regard for basic manners or common decency. "I was under the impression that you loathed this "fattening organic nonsense"." His tone was quite literally sarcastic enough to kill a turbofox at twenty paces.

The Protector looked his Prime over with a thoroughly unimpressed smirk, lipplates smeared generously with chocolate and cream. As far as infuriated mechs went, Megatron had faced down far worse.

"Who the frag else is going to eat this garbage?" The tyrant retorted. If it wasn't consumed, the food would simply go to waste, and there were few things that Megatron loathed more than wastefulness.

Besides, there was a strict time limit. By way of clarification, the tyrant gestured to the buffet case, the glass of which was melting steadily beneath the onslaught of acid rain. It would be perhaps another breem or two before the case and the food that it contained were completely destroyed.

Optimus barely resisted the urge to vocalize his incredibly vulgar and incredibly undignified frustrations. This entire orn was, as the human phrase went, a write-off. The sanctity of leadership had been violated, the ceremony had been completely ruined, and the deities of their world were clearly furious.

Why the Pit had he even bothered with any of this? Looking back at it now, the outcome seemed practically inevitable.

Instead, Optimus vocalized something that even he hadn't expected. "Just mute it and pass me those canapés." The Prime grumbled, extending his servo.

Megatron was an utterly miserable excuse for a Protector, nothing at all like the noble and dignified mech that he'd fantasized about in the vorns after he'd first been granted the title of Prime. However, it was possible that, just this once, the tyrant had the right idea.

Maybe.


	7. Sugar (Part 1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First part of a twoshot - could be set in just about any continuity where Optimus Prime is smug, overbearing, and manipulative. Which is to say, most of them.
> 
> Thanks to all for your continued feedback - I appreciate your time and your kind words!

My Lips Like Sugar AU

Ambiguous Continuity

\---

In Megatron's opinion, Energon was merely a means to an end. A fuel source to be consumed in set quantities at set intervals to maintain the ability of the frame to function.

Preferably, Energon intake should be sufficient to maintain peak operating condition. At the very least, it should stave off the effects of redline. Intake of Energon should be moderated based on availability and the parameters of a mech's frame and tanks. A thoroughly clinical viewpoint on the issue, the sort that many would expect from a mech like Shockwave.

But honestly, Megatron had never derived the least bit of pleasure from fuel consumption. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't intended to provide pleasure. It was merely a means to an end.

"Prime," Megatron intoned flatly, gesturing to a tray of glowing blue spheres. "What purpose do these serve?"

He wasn't curious - well, at least he'd never admit to being curious. The overwhelmingly bright glow was merely a distraction from his work.

"These spheres are concentrated Energon," Optimus explained, trying but not succeeding at keeping the amusement from his voice. "Colloquially they are known as Energon candy, and are consumed for pleasure. I am surprised that you are not familiar with them."

"I have no interest in frivolity. Why the Pit would I familiarize myself with nonsense?" Megatron all but growled at the Prime, attempting as usual to hide his ignorance behind a facade of bravado.

Optimus had come to realize that Megatron was remarkably ignorant in many basic areas, particularly in his knowledge of recreation and the arts. Oftentimes, it seemed that Megatron had never bothered to learn anything unrelated to warfare.

This, of course, translated poorly to peacetime. The Prime was making it a mission to educate Megatron, albeit subtly. The tyrant often became violent when his ego was threatened, and Optimus was frankly tired of the property damage.

"Would you care to try one?" The Prime asked. Not waiting for the stubborn mech to reply, he took one from the tray and tossed it directly at Megatron's faceplates. The mech would be forced to catch it - and getting the treat into the tyrant's servos was easily half the battle.

Reflexively snagging the candy out of the air, Megatron regarded it with a sneer. "I derive no pleasure from fuelling," he scoffed. And he failed to see how anymech actually could.

"I am certain that you will enjoy it." Optimus replied placidly, tone just bland enough to be infuriating.

"I sincerely doubt that." Megatron retorted. Still, if the action would make that infuriating Prime mute his vocalizer, he was willing to consume it. There was actual work to be done, and this conversation was merely a hindrance.

Running a base level scan of the sphere and determining conclusively that it was not poisonous, Megatron unceremoniously shoved the candy into his mouth.

His optics widened at the flavour. Only the knowledge that it would bring satisfaction to his formerly worst enemy prevented him from expressing his approval.

Rising from his console, Megatron unceremoniously reached into the Prime's workspace and appropriated the tray.

"I trust that you enjoyed it?" Optimus inquired knowingly.

"No, Prime. It was disgusting." Megatron's voice was thick with sarcasm - the closest he would come to admitting his satisfaction with the treat.

Perching the tray atop the edge of his own console, Megatron returned to the task at hand. Optimus remained blessedly silent, not even commenting when the tyrant consumed another Energon candy, this time of his own volition.

In the Prime's opinion, this was another small victory, a triumph of knowledge over ignorance. Another step had been taken in Megatron's re-education. If he had enjoyed the treat, well, all the better - Primus knew the tyrant enjoyed very little in his function.

Optimus watched silently as Megatron consumed his third and fourth candies in quick succession. Certainly, there were side effects to consuming Energon in this form, but those could be dwelt upon later. A single instance of overindulgence would do the tyrant no harm.


	8. Sugar (Part 2/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might not have time to update this for the next little while, but rest assured - there WILL be more installments.

My Lips Like Sugar AU

Ambiguous Continuity

\---

A single instance would do the tyrant no harm. Frequently repeated instances over the course of several decaorns were another matter entirely.

Megatron had devoured the entirety of that first tray, and from that orn forward, had been consuming dangerous quantities of candied Energon on a near daily basis.

Megatron had what was colloquially known as a "sweet tooth".

The Prime was exasperated, if not entirely surprised. Megatron was a mech governed by his base desires, and would invariably sate those desires with remarkable stubbornness and persistence.

Megatron had a sweet tooth, and would stop at nothing to satisfy it.

The side effects of the overconsumption of concentrated Energon were readily apparent on the mech's powerful silver frame. Awkwardly clearing his intake, Optimus pretended that he hadn't just spent the entirety of the last breem eyeing those effects appreciatively, and that he hadn't been fantasizing yet again about intimacy with a tyrant.

Of course, he had been. Ever the responsible mech and exemplary leader, Optimus blamed the candy.

The planes and angles of Megatron's blocky frame had softened considerably. They had by no means developed into curves, but even a cursory analysis of Megatron's behaviour patterns suggested that that would be the inevitable outcome.

However, all of that excess fuel had to go somewhere - and it had gone directly to the tyrant's waistline. Megatron's chassis was massive, having more than doubled in circumference since the mech had first begun to consume the candies.

The tyrant was currently seated at his console, one servo manipulating the controls while the other continued to transfer spheres of concentrated Energon from a tray directly into his intake.

His chair was set farther back from the console than it had been last decaorn, and even farther than it had been the decaorn before. This was the only way to accommodate the tyrant's soft, swollen sphere of a chassis, which now occupied the majority of his thighs. It would've been hazardous to allow any part of his frame to press against the sensitive controls.

If Megatron had noticed the increase in his mass, he certainly didn't appear to care. And if Megatron cared, he certainly hadn't seen fit to modify his behaviour.

Transfixed, Optimus watched as the mech consumed yet another candy and exvented with satisfaction at the taste of the treat. The Prime would never admit to his overwhelming desire to frag the chubby tyrant straight through the console, a berth, and several walls. Such a desire would be inappropriate.

“Are you certain that such excessive fuelling habits are wise?” Optimus inquired, feeling obligated to at least attempt to raise the subject. If Megatron were to discover the changes to his frame without preamble, it was likely that his anger would be incredibly destructive – incredibly destructive, and focused entirely on the Prime in retaliation for what he would likely perceive as some kind of perverse trick.

“You’ve finally bothered to comment?” Megatron mocked, his taunt completely missing the point. It was clear to Optimus that the tyrant was completely oblivious to his situation.

“Yes,” the Prime replied earnestly. “I’ve become concerned.”

“Concerned for your worst enemy?” Megatron continued to taunt him, not once pausing in his consumption of Energon. Technically, they were no longer enemies, but his re-education on that matter was still unfortunately a work in progress.

“Yes,” the Prime repeated. “I need to tell you-“

“No need to tell me that you’re a soft-sparked fool,” Megatron smirked. “I already know.” He was in a completely impossible mood, and Optimus knew that this conversation wouldn’t be going anywhere productive anytime soon.

The Prime felt his cooling fans online as he continued to appreciate Megatron's frame, and frowned disapprovingly. There was nothing remotely attractive about the tyrant.

It was then that Megatron turned his helm, regarding the flustered Prime with a raised optic ridge. In that moment, it dawned on Optimus that the tyrant was not only well aware of his situation – he was blatantly exploiting it.

It seemed that Megatron could sense the Prime’s dawning comprehension. His smirk broadened as he leaned back indulgently in his chair, the angle placing his tantalizingly round, soft chassis on full display. He popped another piece of Energon candy into his intake, and made a frankly obscene show of licking the traces of the treat from his lipplates.

Megatron knew. Optimus knew that Megatron knew. Megatron knew that Optimus knew that Megatron knew.

Optimus merely glared at him, refusing to be goaded. For now, it would be in both of their best interests if he were to keep his distance. He couldn’t help but wonder, however, whether his newfound weakness for Megatron’s frame would interfere with the re-education process. It would pose a considerable problem if the tyrant had gained a means of influencing him.

As Optimus considered the issue, he realized that there was a much larger problem at stake. Megatron had easily been able to deduce the Prime’s attraction – how much more had he already become aware of? Was Optimus less subtle than he had initially assumed?

There were now far too many unknown variables in what had, until mere klicks ago, been a stable and straightforward process. This was an unmitigated disaster.

Ever the responsible mech and exemplary leader, Optimus blamed the candy.

After all, the only alternative would be to blame himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you for reading!


End file.
